Today on the site I’m delighted to reveal both the cover of and an excerpt from the upcoming Cozy M/M Romantasy Dating & Dragons by Max Walker, releasing May 25, 2027 from Alcove Press! Here’s the story:
Simon Hartwell is sad, lonely, and close to losing his sanctuary for hurt and homeless dragons. When he crosses paths with Otto Tidelion, a handsome half-elf looking for a new start, Simon finds himself opening up to Otto, surprised to find that he had come to Valoria with a dragon problem of his own. Simon agrees to help Otto when the strapping half-elf promises to help in return.
When a wealthy and ruthless entrepreneur sets his sights on the sanctuary’s land, Simon must find the strength to fight—not just for his dragons, but for a second chance at life, and maybe even love.
And here’s the dreamy cover by Olivia Hintz!
But wait, there’s more! Read on for the first chapter of Dating & Dragons!
Chapter One
The Letter and the Breeze
The tiny and overly rambunctious Tempest dragon gave an excited yelp at the exact moment Simon opened the letter that would forever change his life.
“This is to inform the owner of the Glad Valley Dragon Sanctuary that operations shall cease, and ownership of the land will be relinquished to the bank if the overdue debts have not been paid by next month. This will allow another entity to come in and purchase the property at auction. Thank you, have a splendid day.”
Simon read it over and over again, hoping the words would somehow rearrange themselves to say he had, in fact, won the lotto and was now being given a trip to bathe in the crystal-clear waters of the Fangull Peninsula.
Oh, how he would have loved that. He hadn’t been to a proper beach in years.
Odd, considering he lived next to one of the largest coastal cities in the entire continent of Azoria.
He could go today. Maybe he could go and let the letter drift off into the sea, where he could also float along with it. Where would the currents take him? Far from here, that was certain. Far from the constant stress and worries that clung to him like sticky cobwebs.
Simon hated spiders just as much as he hated this notice. And that was quite a bit. To say the least.
He could not imagine losing the sanctuary. Everything he had built, all the memories he had made on these grounds. How could he go anywhere else?
And, more importantly, where would his dragons go?
Panic rose up inside his chest. Like the thorny tendrils of a poisonous viper-ivy. Sinking into the tender and wet flesh of his lungs, making it difficult to catch a breath. He under-stood that this would happen one day—deep down, he knew that the moment he had lost Castin—but he had hoped it would take a little longer before the metaphorical axe sus-pended above his neck threatened to drop.
A chill draft made him shiver. Or was that the letter?
No, it was definitely a draft. But why was it against his upper thighs? And why did he feel the tickle of the wind against his bal—
“Uh, Simon? You all right there?” It was Bilton, the gruff ranch hand and one of Simon’s only friends.
“Friends” being used loosely in this regard, seeing as he was paid to hang out with Simon.
No. No, I am most certainly not. I haven’t been all right for quite a while.
“Yeah, totally fine,” he answered, his pitch higher than normal. Simon folded the letter up and carefully put it in his pocket.
Except he missed his pocket and dropped the letter to the ground. It fell on top of the pants that were around his ankles.
Odd.
Why would there be pants around his ankles instead of around his waist? And why was Bilton staring pointedly at his crotch?
Simon glanced down again. Reality hit him as hard as that letter had. He was standing by his postbox with a gleeful-looking Morgin gnawing at the fabric of his pants.
“Morgin!” Heat flushed to Simon’s cheeks as he shooed away the troublesome Tempest dragon. He only hatched about five months ago and had absolutely zero house-training or manners, but he did have the cutest damn face Simon had ever laid eyes on. He couldn’t yell or scold the tiny dragon as it lifted its round sapphire-blue snout at him and blinked those golden eyes, a shred of black fabric hanging from his jaw like a lolling tongue from a plush animal.
Simon bent and lifted his pants back up, grabbing the let-ter and stuffing it into his pocket without the care he had previously intended.
“Sorry about that, Bilton. My head hasn’t been quite screwed on right lately. I didn’t even notice.”
“I could tell.” Bilton crossed his burly arms and cocked his head. “At least you were wearing underwear. If Morgin did that to me, you would be getting an entirely different view.”
“Right, right.” Simon scratched the back of his head. He didn’t want to stay on this topic of conversation for much
longer. “So did you manage to figure out what was wrong with Xiva’s sprinkler system?”
“I did. The connector to the plumbing system had rusted through.”
“Oh crap. Were you able to fix it?”
“I was not.” Bilton stuffed both hands into the pockets of his dirty gray pants. He was a mostly quiet man who had come to the city from . . . well, Simon wasn’t sure. He just knew the man had been in desperate need of a job, and Simon had been in desperate need of help.
And now—well, now he couldn’t even pay for that help. “What do you need to fix it?” Simon asked. Maybe he had
a spare part in the house. Or he could go to the city and ask around for someone accepting payment plans.
“I need a raise, sir.”
The only raise he got was Simon’s eyebrows jerking half-way up his forehead. “A, uh, raise. Right. Bilton, you know I would love to pay you more, the honest truth is—that I’m dirt poor and have no real prospects to count on that could save me from losing one of the most valuable things in my life right now, which means I certainly can’t afford to pay you more for the fore-seeable future—I quite can’t. Maybe we can revisit this next month?”
Bilton dropped his head. He kicked a smooth black pebble into the babbling brook only a few feet away from them. It hit the water with a pleasant plop. “I understand times are tough, but me and the wife, we’re planning to start a family. I won’t be able to keep this job if I have another mouth to feed.”
Simon’s guilt only increased. He felt as though Bilton and his wife’s roadblock to having kids was solely due to him. He
tended to take on too much guilt. Even when it never applied to him in the first place. It was a symptom of feeling as though nothing he could do was ever right. As if he was always letting someone down or messing something up. It wasn’t always like this, but for the last few years, it was all life had been.
Guilt, gloom, bills, stress, more bills, a spark of happiness, a pile of bills that snuffed that spark out, more gloom.
Rinse and repeat. Now this.
Did he have any lavender wine left?
“I understand, Bilton. I understand. Do you have a time-line for this? Can you give me two weeks? That seems fair, doesn’t it?”
Bilton shook his head. “I’m sorry, Simon. I’ve been look-ing around and already found a new job, in case the raise wasn’t a possibility. Starts tomorrow. It’s in the city. I’ll be working at one of the taverns as a maintenance man. Maybe you can stop by sometime. Say hi.”
“I would absolutely love that.” Simon could feel the pre-cariously poised smile on his face was ready to fall, just like a wood elf perched on a thin tree branch about to snap at the slightest change in wind. “Thank you for all your help. You’ve done wonders here at the sanctuary. And I know all the drag-ons are going to miss you.”
“Except for Frenn. He never liked me to begin with.” “He never likes anyone. Flame-Eaters are very solitary
dragons. Took him over two years before he even acknowl-edged my presence.”
“Right, well, it has been an experience here, to say the least. I’ve learned a lot. More than I ever knew about dragons.
And I’ve grown much respect for them. Many people take them for granted, I think. But working so closely with them made me realize how special they really are.”
Simon’s precarious smile solidified. Sure, life had thrown a massive pile of dragon shit at him, but at the very least, he had helped spread his admiration for dragons to one other person. That made it worth it.
Mostly.
Simon had found his love for the majestic and (mostly) scaly beasts at a very early age. His father would read him bedtime stories of Sir Samuel Irons and his dragon companion, Tomo, as they adventured around Valoria together. Simon remembered being drawn instantly to the clumsy and com-passionate Tomo, who would commonly—and always accidentally—smack a villager over the head with her tail or sneeze a zap of electricity at Sir Samuel.
As Simon grew up, his interests in dragons only intensified, continuing all the way through his studies at Coronado University—where he not only learned that he was terrible at fae pong but that he also had an affinity for studying anything dragon-related. He found a wonder in them that felt other-worldly. He’d fall asleep during his mathematics and literature lessons but buzzed with excitement during his dragon lectures. He was fascinated by all the different species: the feathered and fluorescent Nightshade dragons of the Montez rainforests, the wingless and thorny Nero dragons who tunneled under the dunes of the Lantern deserts, the majestic Black Banded Sea dragons who were at home in both air and water. He’d spend hours upon hours reading up on the differences, their biology, their histories. He hadn’t imagined how intensely tied his life
would be to his passion, not until Castin entered the picture and helped make his dreams of opening the sanctuary a reality.
A reality that was slowly crumbling in front of Simon’s eyes.
“Thanks, Bilton, you’re making me feel like my degree in dragonology wasn’t a huge waste of time.”
“Not at all, sir. Not at all. Now let me show you my tele-kinetic basketweaving degree, and then you’ll see a true waste of time.”
That got a deep belly laugh out of Simon. The kind of laugh that felt like medicine.
“Good luck, Simon. You’re doing incredible work here.”
Bilton held out a large, calloused hand, and Simon realized he wanted a shake. The hand dwarfed Simon’s as he took it. “We’ll see how much longer that lasts. This notice . . . it’s about unpaid dues. I may have to close the sanctuary.” Saying
it aloud made Simon want to throw up.
Bilton paused, eyes wide in surprise. “Oh, oh. I didn’t know. That’s terrible. I didn’t realize—”
“It’s OK. It’s not your place to stress about it. I’ll figure something out. I still have a little bit of time.”
Not a whole lot of time. But it’s something.
Bilton blinked away his shock. He looked around at the surrounding grassy meadow, as if taking it in for the last time. That made Simon feel even more defeated than he thought was humanly possible.
“You’ll be all right, Simon. You care too damn much about this place to let it go under.” Bilton put a large hand on Simon’s shoulder and squeezed. Simon managed a weak smile. “I hope so,” Simon said. “Thanks for all your help, Bilton.”
Bilton gave Simon’s shoulder one last squeeze and left down the path of pale pink bricks that wrapped around Simon’s quaint cottage, the only structure in the sanctuary that had been taken care of.
It had been Simon and Castin’s main source of pride, the tiny home they had built at the foot of their idyllic little val-ley. It had been their sanctuary inside a sanctuary. A dream come true.
A dream that slowly morphed into a nightmare. Yeah, Simon could use some of that lavender wine. He shut the mailbox and turned to his cottage.
The sanctuary rolled out behind the gray stones and bright blue door. It was a patchwork of worn-down fences, make-shift enclosures, and wildflowers pushing through cracks in the brick paths. Frenn, the grumpy Flame-Eater, perched atop his favorite sunbaked rock close to the flowing brook, was flicking his spiked red tail like an annoyed and oversized cat. The slumbering dragon had no idea his perch was about to be taken from him. The scars around his neck and ankles turned the normally red scales into a dull pink. He’d already been through so much. Now this?
The flap of wings and a large shadow crossed over Simon. Moments later, another one of his dragons made a smooth landing only feet away from him. Simon could never get over how something as large as an elephant and as long as a fisherman’s ship could effortlessly take to the air and land so gracefully.
Maddox gave himself a shake, his inky black fur fluffing out and taming the wind-whipped coat. Simon found himself smiling as Maddox lowered his head. He walked over to the
gentle beast and pressed his forehead against Maddox, rubbing his sides and feeling the scales that were underneath the fur.
Maddox always greeted him like this. Most days, Simon didn’t think much of the greeting and went on with his day. But this forehead bump felt different. The Lupine dragon was also one of Simon’s most intuitive of the bunch. Had he sensed Simon’s discomfort and flown in to rescue him from his gloom? Simon wouldn’t put it past him.
He worked to keep the tears from rising. He kept his face buried in Maddox’s fur. The dragon had an earthy, pleasant scent. Like soil that had been freshly tilled, clay that had been left to dry out in the sun. It comforted him. Simon gave the dragon a couple of head scratches.
“It’ll be OK,” Simon whispered against Maddox’s fore-head. The dragon gave a gentle coo in response. He was likely asking for a treat, but Simon was also glad to accept that as a “you’re right, it will be, buddy.”
Simon lifted his head from the safety and darkness of his dragon’s fur. He decided it was time to see if there was any of that wine left. Morgin, who had been chewing on the carpet of lush green grass, noticed him moving and followed closely at Simon’s ankles as he opened the bright blue door of his cot-tage and stepped inside.
Unfortunately, the interior of his cottage was not as well cared for as the exterior. There was clutter all throughout the living room. Books leaned in precarious towers, and Morgin’s latest prize—a crumpled pair of boxers—lay among forgotten mugs and dusty rugs.
At least all of Castin’s art collection was still up on the walls. Those would stay where they were, their frames constantly dusted
and wiped clean. Simon may have let quite a few other balls drop, but he was not about to disrespect his husband’s memory by neglecting some of his most prized possessions.
He walked through the mess and into the kitchen, which wasn’t any cleaner. He was tempted to draw open the pink floral curtains of the window above the sink, but it wasn’t like he planned to stay in the kitchen for long. He went to the frígora and opened the bottom door, looking inside at the mostly empty shelves. There was a bottle of milk and two leftover grilled cheese sandwiches he had taken a few bites of and decided to store for later.
But no lavender wine. Great. He should have known, especially with the way this day had been going.
He could have stayed in the cottage, climbed into bed, tossed the sheets over his head, and hoped his problems would disappear by themselves.
No . . .
He didn’t want that. Not really. That was the gloom talking.
One: He knew magic was real, but miracles certainly were not, so his problems were not going anywhere by themselves. And two: Getting out and changing scenery could help him clear his head. He figured a trip to the tavern in Valoria would be in his immediate future. There, he could not only have a drink or three, but he could brainstorm some ideas with Linda, his good friend and favorite local dryad bartender—someone who always seemed to know a guy or know a guy who knew a rich and well-connected moon elf.
At the very least, he could get drunk and momentarily forget about his problems.
That was close enough to making them disappear alto-gether, wasn’t it?
He closed the door and turned, seeing Morgin at the arch-ing doorway leading into the hall. He had a mouthful of his boxers. Was chewing on clothes a Tempest dragon thing or just a Morgin thing? He hadn’t remembered learning about any of that in his studies.
He went over and crouched down to Morgin’s level. He scratched at the underside of the baby dragon’s neck, earn-ing some excited tail whips and gentle coos from the tiny underwear-stealing creature. The dragon’s mix of blue, white, and gray scales looked like a storm drawing in on the horizon. Most likely, it’s where the species got their name from, aside from the fact that full-grown Tempest dragons could breathe out bolts of electricity that rivaled the strongest lightning strike.
Simon felt a swell of determination. He would make it through.
I’ve survived worse. I can make it through this.
He had to figure something out. This place wasn’t simply a sanctuary for dragons—it was a sanctuary for him, too. A piece of Castin’s dreams, of their dreams. He was not about to let it go without a fight.
“Don’t get used to being in here, buddy. In a few months, you won’t even be able to fit through the door.”
Morgin dropped the underwear and gave Simon’s hand a lick. His tongue was as rough as sandpaper, as wet as rain, and as comforting as a warm blanket. Simon bent down and kissed the little guy on his scaly forehead, between the two bumps that would grow into curling horns once he reached puberty.
“All right, you’ve had enough fun in here. Don’t eat much more of my underwear, please.”
Simon got to his feet. Today was bad and tomorrow didn’t exactly promise to be any better.
But it also didn’t promise to be any worse.
Small steps now, big leaps later.
There was some solace in that. A sliver of thin and fragile hope that, yes, things might get better tomorrow, or the day after, or the week after that.
And in the meantime—the tavern.
Maybe he’d get something stronger than lavender wine once he reached the Siren’s Call.
Hangover be damned.
Famous last words.
Simon ushered Morgin back out into the valley. Morgin bolted out of the cottage and ran directly into what some would have mistaken for a fallen, ancient oak tree. That oak tree gave a grumble and rumble before standing up, towering over the baby Tempest dragon. Baylor was a Ridgewood dragon, one of the smaller species of dragons with some of the most interesting traits. They had prehensile tails and nearly indestructible claws that helped them climb and leap from tree to tree. Their bark-like scales were the perfect way to camouflage themselves, becoming almost invisible when they latched on to the side of a thick and gnarled oak tree.
Simon closed the cheery blue door to the cottage. Baylor turned his bright yellow gaze in his direction. He pointedly ignored Morgin and lifted his wing as Simon drew closer. Once again, Simon found himself smiling, even though he was sure his cheeks and lips had forgotten how. He gave his
dragon the wing scratches he was asking for, being sure to avoid the scarred area that ran down the length of the soft and leathery underside of Baylor’s wing.
Baylor’s entire body vibrated. A dragon’s version of a cat’s purr.
Simon smile widened, his hope solidifying.
“All right, friend, go and nap somewhere far from Mor-gin. I’ll be back soon.” Simon gave him a couple more scratches.
Small steps, Simon. Small steps.
Simon started to walk up the path that led to the com-muter carriage stop. A cloud of dust rose up from the road. Another carriage—a quite expensive one, with ornate blue siding and large wheels—was yanked away by a pair of regal-looking stallions. On the side of the carriage was a crest emblazoned in silver and red: a burning phoenix embraced by a shining serpent. Simon caught a glimpse of the driver. He didn’t recognize him, but the look he got from the thin-faced man unsettled him. It felt almost predatory.
Odd. He hadn’t been expecting any visitors. Maybe it was a lost traveler on their way to the city. Yes. That had to be it.
Max Walker is a Latino writer living in Atlanta with his husband, whom he’s known since they were fourteen, and who consistently inspires him to create more happily-ever-afters. He’s written more than forty books and has 32,290 Goodreads reviews with a four-star average. His books have been translated and published into Italian and French and reached over two million pages read in Kindle Unlimited. He has also earned the 2025 ApollyCon Wordsmith Scholarship and is very active on the events circuit, most recently appearing at RARE-London 2025. He’s spoken on panels alongside authors like Emily Rath, Brigid Kemmerer, and Xio Axelrod.
